


Someday

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the King Beyond the Wall comes to visit Winterfell, Myrcella knows that she can always find him in the godswood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday

She finds him in the godswood, just as she knew she would.    
  
The King Beyond the Wall kneels at the roots of a particularly-gnarled heart tree, pressing his forehead to the trunk, his pale-auburn hair shining like copper in the late afternoon sun. Rickon so rarely keeps still; he's always moving, shifting, fidgeting, going going going. And so to see him like this, muscles quiet and breaths measured, is both peculiar and oddly pleasing.    
  
Shaggydog notices Myrcella well before his master. The massive direwolf trots over to the young woman, but he does not snarl or bare his teeth. He only rubs his cool, wet nose into her palm, allowing her to kneel beside him and scratch between his ears, offering her an enthusiastic lick to the face when she reaches his favorite spots.   
  
Even as she focuses on Shaggydog, Myrcella can feel Rickon's eyes on her, and a pleasurable chill creeps up her spine. At last, she steps away from the direwolf and approaches the kneeling King. When he rises, she dips into a curtsy.   
  
"Your Gr-"   
  
And then it's his arms around her, pulling her up and against him. His lips on hers, warm and urgent and so very hungry- she opens her mouth wider, granting his tongue access, her hands taking hold of his thick russet hair and pulling until he growls his pleasure.    
  
(Shaggydog echoes the growl, but Myrcella drops one of her hands to rub the top of his head, and he quickly relaxes.)   
  
Rickon pulls away to draw breath, and he cups her face in his rough hands and looks her in the eye. And oh, she loves his eyes- Tully eyes, like his sister's, but somehow so much  _bluer_ . Everything about him seems more vibrant than it has any right to be-his movements bigger, his voice louder, his smile brighter than any she's ever encountered.    
  
He brushes his thumb over the patch of scars that cover half her face, but she does not flinch, not anymore. She'd been so shy at first, but Rickon had only shaken his head and told her that things are different North of the Wall, that the wildlings consider scars proof of a life lived courageously. "Your scars don't ruin you, Myrcella. They make you whole."    
  
Rickon's arms are tight around her as he guides her back and pushes her up against the enormous weirwood. He's never gentle with her, and she's grateful for it- everyone else handles her with such caution, the poor, disgraced Lannister bastard, the one-time princess with nothing to her name, nothing to call her own.    
  
But Rickon knows that there's more steel to her than anyone realizes. He roughly pushes her skirts up over her knees and hoists her up until her legs lock around his waist. Myrcella's nails dig into his broad shoulders, and he thrusts- too fast at first, but she lifts a hand to stroke his brow, a silent reminder. He adjusts his rhythm- it's still pulsing, still immediate, and she savors the scrape of bark on the back of her neck, the pull of her hair as it catches on the low-hanging twigs. And Rickon's eyes are bluer than the sky could ever hope to be, copper-gold on his head and on his chin, his lips red red, teeth white and sharp as his wolf's- her King, her wildling king, more real, more of this earth than anyone she's ever known.   
  
He kisses her when he comes, rocking against her until she cries out her own climax and then holding her close before guiding her down to rest beside him on the thick, fragrant moss.   
  
"I have missed you," he whispers, one hand lazily stroking her hair as the other gestures to Shaggydog. The direwolf approaches the pair, and Rickon laughs when he steps away from his master and instead rests his head on Myrcella's lap.   
  
"And I you."   
  
"Will you come away with me?"   
  
He asks this every time he comes south to visit Winterfell. It had seemed absurd, the first few times- she was newly-arrived from the ruins of Dorne, still mourning the loss of her mother, her brother, her uncle. And Rickon seemed to understand- he never stopped asking, but he also never pushed her when she told him "I cannot."    
  
She opens her mouth to repeat her usual answer, but the words catch in her throat.   
  
_Why can I not? What's left for me on this side of the Wall? What do I possibly stand to lose?_   
  
"I..." She looks down at the direwolf's head in her lap, then up at Rickon's expectant eyes.    
  
And it isn't today- not yet, not quite yet. But in spite of Rickon's ebullient nature, in spite of his energy and vigor and heart, all too big to fit within closed gates and castle walls, he possesses a particular sort of patience. He will wait for her, she feels certain of it- and she thinks that he shan't have to wait long.   
  
"Someday," she replies as she curls into his side and presses a kiss to his pulse point.   
  
"Someday soon."   



End file.
